


Secrets

by SidingwiththeAngels



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Established Relationship, Injured John, Kid Fic, M/M, Marriagelock, Parent!lock, Parenthood, Secret Child, Serious Injuries, Worry, injured child, injuries, married, secret life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-15
Updated: 2014-01-26
Packaged: 2017-11-21 05:16:16
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 14,158
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/593859
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SidingwiththeAngels/pseuds/SidingwiththeAngels
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock has always been a secretive man. John has never divulged much either. But what happens when Lestrade stumbles upon the two biggest secrets the two men share? How differently will it be when they walk together to crime scenes? Very, Lestrade thinks. But Lestrade isn't the only one who finds out.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I do not own Sherlock or it's characters. Mark Gatiss, Steven Moffat, and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle are the evil masterminds behind these characters.

            Everyone has their secrets. Without secrets, the world is a dull place and Sherlock and John know that better than anyone. It had been five years since Sherlock had returned, eight since he had fallen, and their secrets weren’t even closely delved into yet. But one Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade, the one they called a friend, was about to find the ones they treasured most.

~~

            Thirteen years. Lestrade had been working alongside Sherlock Holmes for respectively thirteen years and it never got easier. He was still unbelievably harsh, cold, and too calculating to be considered human. True, he had improved significantly since he had moved in with John but John could only change so much. At least now, Sherlock had a moral compass.

            Sherlock and John were called in on the crime an hour ago. For some reason, they were late. Lestrade stood impatiently by the body, tapping his foot and glancing at his watch every minute or so. When they finally arrived, he let out an angry huff and glared. John smiled apologetically. Sherlock didn’t even look up.

            “Important business, Lestrade. None of your business but important,” Sherlock said coldly as he crouched next to the body. A woman in her forties, the dead body was slung haphazardly onto her bed. She hadn’t been moved and looked dangerously close to falling off. Her undone hair and sleeping gown indicated she never even got out of bed that morning. John snapped on a pair of gloves and tossed some to his companion. “What have you got?”

            “Not much,” Lestrade said wearily, “but she seems to have choked on her own vomit. That’s as far as we know.” Sherlock looked up at him dully.

            “I thought you said this case was interesting,” he muttered.

            “Well,” Lestrade huffed, “the contents of her safe are gone. We think it was a robbery gone wrong.” Sherlock nodded. He remained quiet as he looked over the body, picking up her hands, sniffing her hair, and whatever else he normally did. John waited until Sherlock was finished to start.

            “Smells like alcohol,” he said, smelling her breath. It was soaked in a whiskey smell but there did not seem to be any other signs of alcohol consumption. “Her eyes are white, not red. I think it was poured on her after her death, to make her look like she accidentally killed herself.” He looked up at Sherlock who merely nodded, thinking. John’s phone rang. He pulled off the gloves and stepped out of the room, mumbling into the phone. Lestrade looked back and forth between the two men, trying to get a clue as to what was going on. He heard John sigh and hang up the phone.

            “What? What is it?” Lestrade asked desperately. If it was about the case, he needed to know. John shook his head. Not about the case. He crouched down next to his flat mate and muttered into Sherlock’s ear. Sherlock nodded as John gave his shoulder a squeeze before standing back up.

            “I have to go,” John announced. “I have some…personal affairs that have to be dealt with. I hope it all goes well.” He nodded towards Lestrade and walked out the door. Lestrade sighed in frustration. Not only were they getting no where, but Sherlock’s only link to humanity was leaving. Lestrade had dealt with Sherlock alone many times but it was always nicer to have John around as well. At least then Lestrade could control himself enough to _not_ hit Sherlock in the nose.

            “Sherlock?” Lestrade asked pleadingly. “Do you have _anything?”_ Sherlock stood back up, not taking his eyes off of the body.

            “Four theories, one that I am confident in but need more proof. Bring all of the clothing and evidence to Molly at St. Bart’s. I will deal with it all there.” With a flourish, Sherlock strode out of the room, fingers clacking on his phone, concentration etched on his face. Lestrade sighed before signaling his team to clean it all up. Sherlock was still an insufferable git.

~~

            That evening, Lestrade could not find Sherlock at the morgue or the lab. He desperately needed to talk to the detective so he decided to try Baker Street. If they weren’t there, Lestrade knew he’d be out of luck. He didn’t know where else to look and Sherlock knew it. Knocking on the door of the Baker Street flats, Lestrade prayed and hoped that they were there. The kind old lady Mrs. Hudson opened up the door.

            “Oh, Greg,” she smiled warmly, “here to see the boys?”

            “Yes, Mrs. Hudson,” Lestrade said, returning the smile. “Are they here?”

            “Oh, yes, but you might want to wait until tomorrow.” Lestrade did not listen to the last half. He gently pushed past her and ran up the flight of stairs to 221B. Desperation blocked out any other noise.

            The door to 221B had been closed nowadays rather than open and inviting like he once knew. He believed it to be because John was getting older and craved privacy in some form or another. Shaking his head at the thought, Lestrade pushed the door open and said loudly, “Sherlock? I need to talk – “

            Sitting in the floor of the living room sat John with a little girl on his lap. The little girl looked so vaguely familiar but Lestrade couldn’t figure it out. Her long dark curls bounced as she gazed at John with the piercing grey eyes. John, not noticing Lestrade’s intrusion, chuckled as he bounced the girl on his knee, flicking her nose with this forefinger. She giggled as her pale hands reached up to grab at John. He dodged backwards and fell over, ensuing more giggles from the girl. She fell on top of him, hair splayed to both sides. Lestrade knocked on the door, grabbing John’s attention. John sat up quickly.

            “John,” Lestrade said as calmly as he could muster, surprised at the girl’s existence, “is Sherlock around? I need to talk with him?”

            “Y-yeah,” he nodded, “he’ll be out in a second.” The little girl hid behind John, peeking out over his shoulder.

            “And who is this little sweetheart?” Lestrade said sweetly. The little girl looked at John pleadingly and scared. John swept her up from behind and sat her on his lap.

            “This is my daughter, Alexandria,” John introduced. He looked down at the girl. “This is Daddy’s friend, Greg. Can you say hi, sweetie?” She nodded before giving a shy wave. Lestrade chuckled.

            “I didn’t know you had a daughter,” Lestrade said confused.

            “He doesn’t,” Sherlock said behind him. Wrapped in only a towel, Sherlock stood next to Lestrade, dripping in water. He gave Lestrade a cold look for the invasion on their home. He shook his mop of curls with his hand, quite a lot of water landing on Lestrade’s shoulder. The detective inspector said nothing. “ _We_ have a daughter.”

            Lestrade looked back and forth between the two men. “You mean, as in, you both raised her.” John shook his head as Sherlock sighed loudly. Alexandria giggled.

            “No,” she said aloud. Lestrade was taken aback by the sound of her high pitched voice. “This is Daddy,” she said pointing to John, “and that’s Papa,” pointing to Sherlock. She looked proudly up at Lestrade. “And I’m Alexandria Harriet Watson-Holmes.” She gave him a wide ear to ear smile. She giggled again and fell back onto John’s chest.

            “Watson-Holmes?” Lestrade asked, flabberghasted. “What- what does that mean?” Sherlock sighed dramatically.

            “You still aren’t very bright, Lestrade,” Sherlock huffed.

            “Sherlock!” John warned. Sherlock rolled his eyes.

            “Papa and Daddy are married!” Alexandria giggled. She grinned up at John who placed a small kiss on her forehead.

            “M-married?” Lestrade gaped. Never saw that one coming.

            “You see but you do not observe,” Sherlock said coolly. Holding out his left hand, he showed the detective the simple silver band that adorned his ring finger. John did the same.

            “W-when?”

            “Five years ago,” John said quietly. He looked slightly guilty that they had not told their friend. “We had to keep it a secret. Sherlock had just come back and he didn’t want to put me at more risk if I came out as his husband. So, we only told Mycroft and Mrs. Hudson. It was the same when Lexie was born.” The DI stood in utter amazement as he contemplated everything he had just found out. Sherlock was _married_ to _John._ The two of them had a daughter. No one knew of any of this.

            “This is why we had the door shut, _Detective Inspector,_ ” Sherlock said coldly. “Surely you, of all people, would understand it’s universal meaning.” Lestrade shot Sherlock a cold glare. John simply rolled his eyes. Lexie stood up from her spot on John’s lap and tiptoed over to in front of Lestrade. He crouched down to eye level with her and she stared at his face. She looked up at Sherlock.

            “Papa, he’s tired. He hasn’t slept in two days. Tell him what he wants so he can go to sleep. Please?” she pouted, giving the most convincing puppy dog eyes Lestrade had ever seen. He took a step backwards in surprise. Sherlock’s daughter. Sherlock’s duplicate, more like. He heard Sherlock chuckle proudly. John huffed.

            _“This_ is why she was kicked out of primary school today,” he muttered. “She can’t stop these deductions any more than you can.”

            “Is that why you were called away today?” Lestrade asked, getting his balance back and looking Lexie over. She really was a small duplicate of Sherlock, even with the features she inherited from John. Her eyes weren’t as piercing as Sherlock’s. They were flecked with dark blue and had more expression. Her lips weren’t as pale and thin, but slightly darker and fuller, like John’s. She had a warmth to her that her father did not but Lestrade could tell that she also had the cold mind as well. She seemed to be the perfect combination of the two men. In Lestrade’s opinion, if that were true, she would be the perfect person.

            “Yes,” John said slightly irritated. “Seems Lexie decided to deduce the teacher. She was very offended by what Lexie came up with. And I _told_ you, Sherlock, not to tell her such things!” He rounded on his husband, giving him an angry glare. Sherlock simply shrugged and shook his hair again. Lexie giggled and went over to her father.

            “Papa, pourquoi tu ne lui dis la fille l'a fait?” <Papa, why won’t you tell him the daughter did it?> she whispered. John groaned and fell on the floor. “More French,” he muttered. Sherlock smiled and bent closer to his daughter.

            “Parce qu'il n'est pas aussi intelligent que vous,” <Because he's not as smart as you> he whispered back. He touched her nose lightly as she giggled.

            “Oi,” Lestrade said, “tell me what I want to know and I’ll let you be.” Lexie looked at Sherlock. He nodded.

            “The daughter did it,” Lexie said confidently. Lestrade looked down at the girl.

            “And how do you know that?” he asked kindly but surprised.

            “The safe,” she said. “It was reported empty but had no signs of a break in. The will was recently changed so that her brother got the contents because her drinking made her mummy mad. The daughter killed her using her own medication injections. Then she took the safe stuff!” She smiled broadly at Sherlock who nodded again.

            “Alexandria is right, Lestrade. The daughter injected her mother with an overdose of her own bloodpressure medicine. The victim already had a heart condition of her own. The combination of that plus an overdose of the daughter’s medicine sent her into a seizure that forced her to choke on her own vomit. The daughter poured the whiskey over her to give her the smell of a drunk. John pointed out that she hadn’t been drinking which led me to the puncture wound. I found out within minutes.” Sherlock said as he swiped a curl from Lexie’s face. She giggled again and ran back to John.

            “Daddy, Papa said I’m right!” she whispered. She sat on his stomach and bounced lightly. John only grunted.

            “Well I wish you had bloody well told me earlier,” Lestrade said irritated.

            “I had to be sure,” Sherlock said coyly. “Molly’s lab and another set of eyes were needed before I could be certain. I had planned on telling you later tonight. Now, if you’ll excuse me.” He walked into his room and shut the door with a loud slam. Lexie giggled from on top of John’s stomach.

            “Papa’s always like that,” she said quietly. “Daddy says it’s because Papa likes a show.” John hushed his daughter. Lestrade chuckled.

            “I’ll leave you to it then.” He bade them goodnight and left, his head in a daze. _Sherlock Holmes is bloody married, to John, and has a daughter._ He really was a spectacular actor.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lestrade's new view on the Detective and his Blogger

Over the next couple of months, Lestrade began to notice things that he had previously pushed aside when observing Sherlock and John. They were minute actions but now that he knew, they meant so much more. Hands brushing. Small smiles. Stern looks. Even compliments, which before drove Lestrade crazy, meant even more. Before, he believed that John’s incesit habit of checking his phone was because he had dates. Now, he knew they were worried glances about his daughter. Texts that kept ringing on Sherlock’s phone were no longer information updates about cases but were texts from Mrs. Hudson or Lexie. There were days when the detective inspector wished he had someone to talk to about this but he always kept his mouth shut.

John had to leave crime scenes much more often nowadays. His leaving made him irritable as well as Sherlock. Most of the time, he was able to come back or meet up at the Yard. Some days, he was never seen again. One day, when John hadn’t come back from a very early case, Lestrade pulled Sherlock aside.

“Is everything alright with John? I’ve noticed he’s leaving a lot,” he muttered for only Sherlock to hear. Sherlock shook his head minutely.

“Alexandria is acting up in school,” Sherlock mumbled. Even in his low, muffled voice, Lestrade heard a smidgen of pride. So she was intellectually acting up.

“Too smart for her class?” he asked, chuckling. Sherlock nodded.

“She’s been skipped ahead to third year. John hopes that she’ll calm down now that she’s been advanced,” he muttered. A smile threatened to break on his thin, pale lips. “I doubt it. I wasn’t much of a role model child myself. He’s afraid she’ll turn out like me.” Lestrade nodded, trying not to smirk, and went back to the case.

The next case they worked, John was downright infuriated. He stormed out of the scene, stringing along curses in his wake. Lestrade turned to look at Sherlock who, for a moment, let his guard down and expressed a small sad look. Before Lestrade could properly register this look, his cold hard façade was back. Acting as if nothing had happened to John, Sherlock turned back to the dead body, examining it with is cold piercing eyes.

Later that afternoon, Sherlock and Lestrade were at the Yard, arguing very loudly about evidence. Peace was brought with a small knock at the door. Lestrade and Sherlock whipped around to see John standing, rather stiffly, in the doorway holding Lexie’s small hand. A slightly frightened look was plastered to her small features, her fingers clutching nervously at John’s.

“Please, you two, stop yelling,” John said calmly. “The entire Yard can hear you. What’s going on?”

“This imbecile is trying to argue that what I found isn’t evidence,” Sherlock spat. He turned his gaze towards Lexie who instantly hid behind John’s leg. Sherlock knew that move. He had frightened her with his raw anger. He took a deep breath, closing his eyes for a moment. When he reopened them, Lexie was standing in front of him, still frightened but determined.

“What’s wrong, Papa?” she whispered.

“Nothing to worry about, Lex,” he said as affectionately as he could without letting his mask crack. There were still others around and John was still afraid of letting others know about their family. In response, she nodded and walked back to John. Just as she took his hand again, Donovan and Anderson arrived in the doorway behind John. Sherlock loudly groaned. “Going to lower our IQ’s this early, are we?” he quipped. Anderson scowled as Donovan looked Lexie over.

“Who are you?” she said kindly but with a mixture of confusion and possible disgust. Sherlock smirked. _Doesn’t like children._

“Alexandria,” Lexie said quietly.

“Where are you parents?” Donovan asked, giving John a quick glance. Lexie opened her mouth but John cut her off.

“She’s my cousin,” he lied smoothly. “My cousin’s daughter. Babysitting her for awhile, right Lexie?” Lexie nodded, giving Sherlock a quick look. He nodded too. It was rather amusing that Donovan could not see the replication of Sherlock in the tiny now five year old girl but he made no remark about it.

“Bet it’s interesting living with that freak,” Donovan said. Lexie suddenly lost all fear and frowned right in Donovan’s face.

“He’s not a freak!” she said angrily. “Pa – Sherlock is very smart! You’re just jealous!” She stuck her tongue out at the sergeant. Donovan scowled at her and looked up at Sherlock.

“You’ve rubbed off on her very quickly, Freak. Be careful or she’ll turn into you.” With that, she dropped a file on the floor behind John and left, her dark curls bouncing angrily behind her. Lestrade chuckled as Sherlock and John fought off very proud smiles. Anderson scowled as well before pushing past John to enter the room.

John crouched down next to Lexie to whisper in her ear. “Why don’t you go sit on Greg’s chair, Lexie. Papa and I will be done soon hopefully.” He gave her a very subtle kiss on her ear as she nodded. Worming out of his grip, she quickly went over to the chair and crawled into it, holding her knees to her chest. Rejoining the other three men, John tried to refocus onto the case. Anderson and Sherlock were already arguing.

“This paper tells us nothing,” Anderson growled, throwing the evidence bag back onto the desk.

“Why would it be there if it wasn’t useful, Anderson?” Sherlock snapped back. “Just because I haven’t pieced it together yet doesn’t mean it’s not useful. Open your tiny mind, you idiot.”

“Girls, calm down,” John said exhaustedly. He threw Sherlock a subtle stern look. _Your daughter is in the room, Sherlock Calm down._ Sherlock did not respond. Instead, he turned back to the paper to read it again.

“ _What once was ninth is now forgotten; the other eight still reign,”_ Sherlock read. There was silence for a minute or two before a small voice spoke up.

“Pluto,” Lexie said. All four men turned their attention to her. “It means Pluto.”

“What are you on about, Alexandria?” Sherlock asked, eyebrow raised. She wriggled out of the chair and around the desk to where Sherlock was standing. She pulled herself onto the desk and fished out his mobile from his coat pocket.

“We learned about it in school,” she said as she focused on the phone. “Pluto used to be a planet. There were nine planets. Now, it’s a dwarf planet so there are only eight planets left.” She found what she was looking for and held it up for Sherlock and Lestrade to see.

“How old is she?” Anderson’s voice cut in.

“Five,” Sherlock retorted, a proud smile finally breaking through. But then it fell as confusion took over. “But what does it have to do with anything? Alexandria, what else do you know?”

“If you knew about the solar system, you wouldn’t be asking a five year old child about it,” John teased lightly under his breath. Sherlock threw him a scathing look.

“Well,” she said slowly as she took back the phone. “Teacher said that the scientist people are arguing over if it should be a planet again. Then she said that it was a useless planet anyway. That’s why they said it was a dwarf planet instead of just a rock. To make it half a planet. But teacher’s stupid.” Out of the corner of his eye, Sherlock saw John rub the bridge of his nose in irritation. He couldn’t help but smirk.

“So, what,” Anderson said, “they’re hinting at something useless?” Sherlock groaned.

“They are trying to tell us they are after something that everyone over looks, Anderson,” he spat irritated. “I don’t know what yet or who they were intending to get the message to. But I will find out.” Anderson scowled again and left the room. Lestrade strode to the door and shut it after the forensics ‘expert’. With the door shut, Lexie jumped off the desk and ran to hug Lestrade’s legs. Taken back by surprise, Lestrade looked between John and Sherlock. They both shrugged, confusion etched on their faces.

“Urhm, hello, Lexie,” he said, patting her back.

“Uncle Greg,” she muttered into his knees, “why don’t you come to visit?”

“Alexandria,” Sherlock said sternly, “he’s not your uncle.” Lexie turned around to look at him, barely letting go of Lestrade’s legs.

“A boy in my class said that when your parents have close friends, it’s normal to call them ‘aunt’ or ‘uncle.’” She turned around to look at Lestrade. “You’re Daddy and Papa’s best friend. I can call you uncle, right?” Lestrade beamed at the girl, nodding his head. Crouching down, he looked into her small face.

“’Course you can, Lexie. I don’t mind.” Sherlock groaned behind him. The detective inspector looked up, amused. John smiled behind Sherlock before moving forward.

“We need to get home, you two,” John said looking between his husband and daughter. They both pulled the exact same face. Excitement mixed with boredom. He shook his head as he took Lexie’s hand and walked out the door of the office, Sherlock following behind. Lestrade laughed at the sight to himself.

 


	3. Chapter 3

Lexie’s teachers couldn’t take it anymore. She had been shifted around between all the teachers and tutors for her education level but her Sherlockisms, as John called them, kept her from learning much. She couldn’t focus on the ‘simple and unimportant’ when what she saw about people nudged on her mind. John was called for the last time to the headmaster’s office. Shaking in a silent battle of calm and frustration, the headmaster politely hissed through his teeth for John to “please transfer your daughter away from us” rather than expel her. John smiled grimly, taking Lexie’s hand, and left. He did not say anything on the cab ride back to their flat, afraid he’d say something he would regret. Lexie was smart but she was still only five. Throwing timid glances to her silent father, Lexie stayed quiet as well. Papa would understand. Papa always understood.

“Sherlock,” John growled as they entered the flat. “Get in here.”

Sherlock sauntered out of the kitchen, hands gloved and eyes shielded in protective wear, and looked down at Lexie. “Out of school already?” he said with an air of amusement.

“Don’t, Sherlock,” John said sternly. “Not in the mood. Lexie has been expelled. We have to find a new school.” Sherlock raised an eyebrow at his daughter who hid sheepishly behind John’s leg.

“What was she expelled for?” Sherlock asked emotionless. He had an idea.

“Oh don’t pretend you don’t know!” John snapped. “Because she’s your bloody daughter, that’s why! She can’t stop these deductions anymore than you can. Her teachers are fed up and refuse to teach her anymore. The tutors are the same way. And, from the attitude I got from the headmaster, she managed to slip in time to take the piss out of him too.”

“It’s not my fault he doesn’t love his son as much as his daughter,” she said quietly. Sherlock tried not to smile and turned his back to John and Lexie.

“There’s nothing we can do about that, John. Like you said, she is my daughter but she is yours as well. Be thankful she’s not as rude about it as I am.”

“Yes, thank God for that,” John muttered as he went into the kitchen. Just as he grabbed the kettle, Sherlock’s phone alerted him to a text. “Lestrade?”

“Hmmm, yes,” he responded distractedly, reading the text. After it registered fully that he now had a case, he spun around excitedly to face John’s back in the kitchen. “Come, John! We have a case!” John instantly started shaking his head.

“No, no, no,” he said quickly with a frustrated chuckle. “One of us has to stay here with Lexie. This is your job which means I’m staying here with her.”

“Mrs. Hudson – “

“Has gone on holiday with Mrs. Turner,” John quipped. Sherlock mused for a moment. “Sherlock, the only other people who know about Lexie are Mycroft and Greg. Mycroft won’t take care of her nor does he have the ability. Greg for obvious reasons. Which means I have to stay.”

“I _need_ my partner. I _need_ my doctor,” Sherlock said in his very rare pleading voice that he reserved only when John was being more bull headed than, well, a bull. He could see as John contemplated cracking but he shook his head, In anticipation, he threw off the goggles and gloves, prepared for the victory.

“I can’t. I have to stay – “

“I want to go,” Lexie said loudly. Both men turned to her, Sherlock looking prideful while John looked slightly horrorstricken. Her blue-grey eyes were wide with pleading, curiosity, and desire. It was a look she had replicated from Sherlock and one John could very rarely resist. John melted in her hands like putty most of the time. “I want to go with you, Daddy. I’ll behave, I promise.” Sherlock chuckled.

“No, Lexie, you can’t. It’s not proper,” John said weakly. Sherlock laughed uproariously.

“If you haven’t noticed, John, we’re not proper,” he quipped, a smirk playing with the corners of his pale lips. John growled and rubbed the bridge of his nose in frustration. He threw his hands up in the air in defeat.

“Fine! Fine, she can come.” He looked between the two very excited faces. “But you have to behave. You too, Lexie.” Sherlock threw him a playful scowl before running, scooping a giggling Lexie into his arms, and hurrying down the stairs, John not far behind.

XX

Sherlock strode into the alley, his cold hard demeanor professionally fixed, and ignored Donovan as he made his way to the body. John stopped next to Donovan and knelt down to Lexie.

“Stay here with the sergeant. We’ll be done soon,” he whispered. Lexie shook her dark curls furiously. “Why not, love?”

“I don’t like her,” she whispered dramatically. “She called Papa a freak. Besides, she’s probably stupid.” John wanted nothing more than to hit his husband right now. His mannerisms were too ingrained in Lexie now. He chuckled softly.

“Fine but don’t stray from me, not even to go to Papa.” He kissed her forehead softly before standing up and walking over to the body. Sherlock was in his mode, examining every particle in the alley that could help. To John, it didn’t look like the body had been harmed. There were no external wounds or discolorations. He didn’t smell alcohol or drugs. Looking over at Sherlock, he silently asked what happened. Sherlock shrugged. Something caught his eye, however. Kneeling back to the body, he lifted it enough to pull out a small picture out from under it. He put the body back down as he examined the picture. After a quiet minute, he handed the picture over to John. It was a monument of some sort, old and made completely of marble. A woman sat atop a large sphere, looking down at the man sitting with two cherubs. Leaning against books, he looked to be instructing the cherubs with his hands turned in an odd position. Underneath him, the entire monument sat on top of a large slab of black marble with a rather indistinguishable scene carved at the bottom.  John flipped the picture over to look at the back.

“ _I spy something missing.”_ He flipped it back over. “Sherlock, what is this?”

“I don’t know,” Sherlock murmured slowly. “Another clue, I presume, but of what?” Sherlock took the picture from John and handed it to Lexie. John raised an eyebrow at him but Sherlock did not acknowledge it. “What is it? Do you know?” Lexie stared intently at the picture before handing it to John.

“Sir Isaac Newton,” she said quietly.

“Who?” Sherlock asked perplexed. John groaned again.

“The man who theorized gravity?” he said mockingly. “One of the greatest scientists of all time? Oh, but that’s useless information, isn’t it?” Sherlock scowled at John.

“But what’s missing?” he asked himself, muttering under his breath.

“The apple,” Lexie said.

“The what?”

“Newton discovered gravity when an apple fell on his head,” John explained simply. Sherlock thought for a moment before his eyes widened slightly. “Sherlock, what is it?”

“Moriarty is back,” he said, his voice hardening and his eyes turning cold.

“Moriarty?” Lestrade said. “But he’s dead.”

“Obviously not,” Sherlock said demeaningly. “When he came to our flat the last time, he carved _I O U_ into an apple and left it with me, saying he owed me a fall. That was before – “

“I can’t take this!” John shouted, his voice strained with anger and…fear. “I am sick of this game you two play, Sherlock! End this game and end it now.” He stood seething, his hands balling into tight white fists. His face was screwed up in pure anger but Sherlock could see that under the rage, he was consumed with fear.

“It’s not my game, John,” Sherlock said coldly, standing at his full height, hands behind his back. “You know better than anyone – “

“You’re right, I do. That doesn’t make it any better. That only makes it worse,” John said through gritted teeth. He could feel Lestrade, Donovan, and the forensics team all staring at him, most of them confused at the yelling match taking place over a dead body but he didn’t care. His only focus was the man in front of him and the small girl standing between them. Without another word, he spun on his heels and pushed past the police force blocking the way out of the alley towards the street. Everyone stood in complete silence as they heard his footsteps die off. Lexie ran to Sherlock, gripping tightly around his waist, and began to cry. Sherlock crouched down next to her and swept her up in his arms. He didn’t care now about how the police would see him. He kept his mask on but he couldn’t not comfort his daughter. John and Sherlock rarely fought in front of her and they never brought up Sherlock’s death. He postulated that her confusion scared her more than their yelling did. He nuzzled his nose into her black curls, whispering soft words of comfort into her ear. When she calmed down a bit, she pulled back and looked into his face. Hurt. Confusion. Fear. Adoration. Love. All were written in her small face and he was sure they were written in his too. Without a word, she broke away and ran after John. Arms now empty and heart heavy, Sherlock rose and turned his attention back to the dead body. He finished albeit with much less enthusiasm than before.

 

221B never looked so haunting to Sherlock before. Even when he was returning from ‘the dead,’ he entered the flat with much more confidence than he had now. John was in no way a fragile being. He was strong and calloused but he could only take so much pain. Sherlock knew that if Moriarty really was back, it would be John’s breaking point. His family would be in jeopardy again, something he would not be able to cope with, Sherlock believed. He took a deep breath and pushed the door open to the flat. John was crouched over, hands in his hair, in his armchair, laptop pushed to the floor. He had been trying to update his blog but could not find the drive to do so. His face was red but not puffy. _Not crying, just angry,_ Sherlock noted. Silently, he walked up behind his husband and put a gentle hand on his shoulder. He felt John jump.

“Sherlock,” he said in a strained voice, turning to face his tall husband. “I-I didn’t hear you come in. How – how did the case go?” Sherlock shrugged.

“It doesn’t matter,” he said softly. “I’m not concerned with the case right now. I’m concerned about you.” He made his way around to face John and knelt before him on the floor. John watched his every move, face now blank of emotion. “John, I know that those two years were hard on you. Believe me, they were just as hard on me. But if Moriarty is back, you know that I have to find him. You know I have to do this by his rules if I want to keep you safe and Alexandria.” John sighed and nodded.

“I know. I just – “ He ran his hands through his hair again, making the graying hair stand on end. “When are the nightmares going to stop, Sherlock? When are we going to have a normal life? I want to go out and tell everyone that I have a wonderful, extremely intelligent daughter that I’ve raised with an equally wonderful and extremely intelligent consulting detective. I want to not live in fear that someone will come after us because of you. What about Lexie? Is she going to have to live in fear and continue to deny us as her dads? She hates it as much as I do, if not more.” He cupped Sherlock’s face gently, rubbing a calloused thumb across Sherlock’s sharp cheekbone. “When are the nightmares going to stop?” he repeated in a whisper. Sherlock covered John’s hands with one of his own.

“I don’t know, John,” he said truthfully. “But you know that I want the same as you do. I want to tell everyone that I married a very brave and caring army medic who has been able to put up with me longer than my own parents could. I want to show off Alexandria to every person who comes by and not have to hide how proud I am when she insults Donovan or Anderson.” John gave him his _bit-not-good_ look. Sherlock smiled and continued. “I want your nightmares to stop too. I want you to be happy and I want Alexandria to be happy. But as long as I still have enemies, these are things we’ll have to deal with. It’s just the same as if you weren’t invalid, still in the army, and were deployed. It is something that comes with our jobs. The quicker I find Moriarty, the quicker we can do any of this. But I have to play by his rules.” John nodded morbidly and smiled weakly. He kissed Sherlock chastely on the lips as his silent act of understanding. Sherlock stood up, looking around the flat. Without a word, he went upstairs while John went back to his blog.

Minutes later, John heard quick, loud steps as Sherlock ran downstairs. He turned around to see Sherlock’s white face, eyes wide.

“What is it, Sherlock?” John asked as calmly as he could.

“Where’s Alexandria?” Sherlock asked quietly.

“She was with you, at the crime scene,” John said quickly. Sherlock shook his head.

“She went after you when you left.” Panic was starting to rise. A loud crunch bounced around the flat but neither man paid any attention as John’s laptop sat broken on the floor. John ran upstairs, as if _he_ could find Lexie. A few very quiet moments later, John ran down the stairs, stopping at the last step. He looked Sherlock in the face, his normally tan caring face now ghostly white and seeping in panic. His eyes were wild and searching, searching for anything that would bring his daughter back.

Lexie was gone and they had no idea where she could be.


	4. Chapter 4

Sherlock and John spent the rest of the night running over every bit of information they could which could possibly lead to Lexie whether she was captured or just wandered away. Knowing Sherlock and his ability to anger more than a few dozen people, John believed she had been taken but refused to let his panic win out. It wasn’t until mid-morning when Sherlock was pacing frantically that John resigned his pride and said quietly, “We have to go to the Yard, Sherlock. We have to tell Lestrade so that – “

“No, John!” Sherlock said hurriedly. “We can’t let anyone else – “

“Damn secrecy, Sherlock!” John shouted, anger and panic getting the better of him. “Our daughter is gone! But Lestrade knows about her. All we have to do is tell him she’s missing. Nothing more.” Breathing deeply, John knew he had to appear calm to keep Sherlock grounded. To the rest of the world, Sherlock seemed as if he could not have any emotions at all. Anger, possibly, but anything else would be a mystery to the man. John knew differently. Sherlock’s emotions were locked away for a reason. He succumbed to them easily, letting them take over his thought processes. Fighting his emotions was a losing battle to start with. Sherlock took a deep breath as he nodded, realizing John was right. Without another word, the two men grabbed their coats and sped out the door.

Twenty agonizingly slow minutes later as they arrived at the Yard, John threw the money at the cabbie as he and Sherlock quickly made his way inside. They weaved and pushed their way into Lestrade’s office, ignoring the fact that the DI was in a deep conversation with Donovan.

“Oi!” Donovan exclaimed. “We’re busy here, Freak. And we don’t – “

“Alexandria is missing,” Sherlock said quickly but evenly to Lestrade. John kept back, afraid his fear would cripple him or worse. Not breaking the eye contact with the consulting detective, Lestrade silently and slowly stood up as the dark brown eyes seemed to show how fast his brain was processing and calculating the severity of the issue. The small time robbery he had been working on could surely wait. After what seemed like weeks, Donovan finally broke the silence.

“What is the big deal?” she said, a tense and false laugh lacing her tone. The sergeant glanced between the three men ignoring her with her hands on her hips as she tried to figure it all out. None of it made sense. “You don’t even like kids, Freak. Why are you getting so upset about this one? We’ll find her soon enough.” She failed to notice Sherlock’s large pale hands flexing and fisting maddeningly at his side, something neither the ex-army doctor nor the DI missed. Cautiously, John stepped forwards to grip his partner’s elbow which did nothing to lessen the pain he was inflicting in his own palm. The neglect to answer had Donovan starting up again. “She’s a child. Children run away all the time. Just because you work with us for God knows why doesn’t meant you can come in here and demand for us to search for a child we don’t actually know is missing. You have to wait twen-“

“She did not run away,” Sherlock hissed as he finally turned around to face her. His usually piercing gray eyes were bright and hard with anger as his face twisted into a pure anger only John had ever seen before. Donovan stumbled backwards but tried to redeem herself by stepping forward with an angry expression of her own. Dark eyes hard set on the detective and tight curls bouncing wildly around her face, she jabbed at his chest as she spoke.

“How would you know?” she gritted out. “You despise anything human. I bet you ran her out – she couldn’t handle living with a freak like you. She is obviously much smarter than John ever was.” The olive skinned woman threw a look of pity and disgust at John who reciprocated but it was laced with anger. “We will find her when the twenty-four hour period has hit. She ran away, Sherlock. Nothing else.”

“My daughter doesn’t run away,” Sherlock spat angrily and stormed past her towards the front of the building. Stunned silence fell over the sergeant as the doctor and the DI watched her. Neither man felt upset with Sherlock; it had been coming to Donovan for a while now. Gritting his own teeth together to keep his patience, John stepped forward and turned to the DI.

“Please,” he pleaded quietly, “find our daughter. We don’t know – “

“’Our?’” Donovan repeated. John turned on her sharply, the steely dark blue glare returning. The woman could not hide her sharp intake of breath as the severity of John’s gaze burned through her. He had never in so many years been so angry and never since he had returned to London. But his daughter was gone and one of the few people who could find her was poking at Sherlock like a child. Slowly, with a burning intensity, John stood completely erect as he took a step closer to the woman and relishing as she stumbled backwards again.

“Yes, _our_. Did I stutter, sergeant?” he spat. Taking a closer step to the taller woman, John did not back down nor let his obviously short stature sway him as he hissed dangerously low, “You cannot _fathom_ anyone loving Sherlock or even liking him. You think he’s nothing more than a cast off that no one wants because he’s _different_. It’s the shallow minded _bitches_ like you that we tried to keep our daughter away from. But I promise you this, Sergeant Donovan, if we cannot find her or if something happens to her, there will be _no_ stopping Sherlock if he comes after you for wasting our time. And because he’s ‘different,’ you know he won’t back down like other parents will. He’s not another father who will stop when you threaten an arrest. You personally have arrested him more times than anyone else. Find her or you face him.” Narrowing his eyes more, he growled, “Because you don’t want to face me.” He did not even look at the detective inspector as he too stormed out of the room following his husband’s trail.

 

XX

 

Sherlock paced maddeningly around the flat sitting area for hours, waiting and thinking and panicking, in silence. Nothing came, not even John, but he did not worry. John was a former soldier and very able to defend himself. It was their five-year-old daughter that still had him on edge. What would someone want with a five-year-old when they did not know her parentage? Who was it that wanted her, more importantly. The mad man could not come up with a viable answer and began to tear at his graying curls. Every enemy who was at this level of intelligence were either dead or heading the British Government and as his brother hadn’t called him with a lecture of how irresponsible of a parent he was – again – he ruled out Mycroft altogether. It wasn’t until his fingers began to ache from pulling on his hair that he finally twirled around and, with a hefty kick, angrily kicked the old coffee table over onto the sofa. It did nothing to appease his anger or to help him locate his daughter. Nothing would help unless he had a clue – a name, a location, a bloody crime scene -  but as she had been snatched off of the streets, how was he to find her? He groaned and growled and cursed in rage just before his phone chirped. Ignoring it, he began his pacing again, wearing out the faint trail made in the rug and hardwood floor. Then his phone chirped again and again. Growling in frustration, he checked his phone. If the world could stop, if time could stand still, if ice could run through veins, it would have. Sherlock’s heart stopped in his ribs as he read the texts over and over again. No. This couldn’t be happening. Nothing – it defied everything – but so did he. Taking a steadying breath, he banished all emotion as he reread the texts.

 

_My, my, Sherly. You do make such a lovely daughter. JM_

_Ooh, Daddy just joined the party. JM_

_They will end where you and I began. JM_

It took Sherlock less than an hour to figure out what the consulting criminal meant by where they ‘began.’ The pool and the lab had both disappointingly – infuriatingly devoid of any clues as he ran. It wasn’t until he knocked over a stand of beakers that he remembered. Within the span of ten minutes, he was running through the halls of the college and trying to figure out where they could be.

When he found them, the sight was haunting. Standing casually in the corner, Moriarty held Lexie still by her curls which had been through into a rough ponytail for ease. Tears welled in her angry eyes but she had her face turned away from the man. Her hands, bound at her waist, clenched and flexed every few seconds to control her anger as John had taught her. Sherlock shook from rage just watching as his daughter stood frightened and angry beyond her comprehension. Cautiously, he opened the door, the creak of the old wood giving him away, and stepping into the dimly lit room. Moriarty did not move as his eyes flickered to Sherlock’s face. After a moment, he finally spoke.

“I’m tired and busy, Sherlock, so let’s make this quick,” he said in a bored voice. He snapped his fingers and a loud grunt sounded from the hall next to them. After a crash and a loud swear, John was pushed in just as tied up as Lexie and thrown to his knees. Sherlock kept his face completely stoic as his eyes flickered between his husband and his daughter. “There is only one way out of this room.” A gun was roughly shoved into his hand and his fingers were forced to clasp it. “Pick who you ‘love’ more and shoot the other one. Who will you pick, Sherlock? Your husband or your daughter?”

 


	5. Chapter 5

In a world full of noise where trains and planes and cars never stopped, silence was the sweetest gift a man could ask for. But for Sherlock, it was the weight of every negative choice he had ever made culminating into one distinct time in the universe and now weighed on his frail daughter’s life. Her dark blue eyes searched her father’s form for any sort of answer, any sort of sign that said Papa would help her, save her, save Daddy. But here and now Sherlock had been able to build a wall even for her against his emotions as he stared down the dark, soulless eyes of the psychopath. The seemingly careless demeanor did not spur the madman on, which was what Sherlock was counting on, but it did not deter him either. Stalemate. Someone had to move, had to thrust a pawn into the opening before the kings could move.

As the silence stretched on, their eyes never broke apart until a wicked gleam passed over Moriarty’s dark eyes and he blinked. He turned to look at the man holding John and nodded. A sickening crunch emanated through the air, accompanied by a gasp from Lexie, but John did not make a sound. The pain in his dark blue eyes was enough for Sherlock to move forward and surrender yet he didn’t get the chance.

“Papa, non. Sauve papa. Vous pouvez avor plus d’enfants. Vous pouvez avoir un autre Lexie. Vous ne pouvez pas trouver un autre papa –,“ <Papa, no. Save Daddy. You can have more kids. You can have another Lexie. You can’t find another Daddy -> Lexie pleaded but her dark curls were jerked up harshly by her captor and she let out a choked sob in pain.

“No French, darling,” Moriarty cooed. He looked up at Sherlock. “None from you either, Sherly. No need to cheat. Besides, of the five people in this room,” he smiled over at John, “only one can’t speak French. Wouldn’t it be kinder to include _everyone_ in the conversation?”

Sherlock let out a small, almost too quiet to be heard growl as his free hand clenched hard to the point where he felt the threat of blood against his fingernails. But he released and flexed his fingers minutely.

“What happens if I choose neither?” he said coldly with his eyes only for Moriarty. “What happens if I put the gun down and do nothing?”

Moriarty’s cold laughter rang through the room before Sherlock even finished his second question. He was drowned in cold, emotionless, haunting laughter from a man who did not understand his plight but enjoyed watching him suffer under it. With a sharp tug, Moriarty threw Lexie backwards by her hair until she hit the wall and slid down to the floor, almost unconscious from pain and fright. Sherlock almost made a move forward but his bluff. His bluff needed to stay resolute. With seemingly uncaring eyes, he watched as the madman stepped forward until they were mere inches apart.

“Would you really do that, Sherlock?” he asked quietly to where no one could hear them. “Would you really risk your stooge’s life, the man who made you forget who you are? Or would you kill off your little science experiment of a daughter?” But all sense of lunacy and deranged amusement left his eyes as a deep set frown overtook his lips and anger and betrayal spoke highly in his dark eyes. “We used to be alike, you and I. Perfect halves to a whole. Now look at you. Sniveling little coward.” He jerked his knee up into Sherlock’s stomach unexpectedly and made the detective bow over in half. “Can’t even hold a gun to your poor monkey’s head.” He elbowed down onto Sherlock’s crown until the man was nearly kneeling on the floor. “What happened to the Sherlock who would do anything for a puzzle, for a game? The man who let others die in the name of the Work? What happened to him?”

Moriarty’s voice was more human than Sherlock had ever heard him be before. It wasn’t the betrayal of stepping out of the game. It was betrayal for being left alone. With Lexie and John, Sherlock had all but assimilated himself to the normal, boring people in Moriarty’s eyes and Sherlock could see that. He had left Moriarty alone in his morose, dangerous, self-destructive world without a thought. And now he was going to pay for it.

This time as Moriarty’s knee came up, Sherlock grabbed it and, with a precisely timed and placed hit, dislocated Moriarty’s knee. The man screamed loud enough to shake windows for only a second until he looked down on the detective and stood on his dislocated knee. Pain run through every shake of his muscle movement but it seemed he was not going to show Sherlock the damage. He was better than pain. He enjoyed pain.

Moriarty’s injury gave Sherlock enough time to stand back up and look the man in the face briefly before looking over at his daughter and husband. The situation was impossible. Only a twenty-eight percent likelihood they would all three survive, fifty-nine percent chance of only one of them surviving. Sherlock knew who would be left if he took that course of action.

“That man evolved, Moriarty,” Sherlock said coldly and quietly, his voice ringing steadily through the room as if to cover every inch of silence with a deep complexity no one could understand. He slowly returned his gaze to the psychopath standing between himself and his nearly unconscious daughter. “Pain is a marvelous paralytic but love is a fantastic motivator. At least, that is what I told your cabbie so many years ago, didn’t I? And I was right.” He began in a circular motion slowly, almost as if to dance around with Moriarty though he made no steps closer to the man nor did he seem to deviate off towards his daughter. “But those are things you will never fully understand nor should you. In a world full of locked doors, you have the key to nearly everything except the full-potential of a man. You can threaten a man’s life until the moment he snaps or you can threaten his family and watch him burn.”

Quickly as possible, he aimed both his gaze and his gun  towards the other set of men in the room, only chancing a glance at John’s dark blue eyes before whispering, “I’m sorry, John,” and shot.

XX

Lestrade looked down at his phone just as a text came in, _Holmes_ flashing on his screen. _I need to change that now that I know about them,_ he told himself for the twenty-third time as he opened up the message and read. But it wasn’t anything useful.

_[Manual text delay]: Jefferson Hope. SH_

The DI was more than a little lost on the entire text. Who was Jefferson Hope and what did he have to do with anything? If it was connected to Lexie –

“Shit,” Lestrade whispered to himself then ran out into the horde of officers rushing around the homicide department. He caught up to Donovan and demanded without greeting, “Look up Jefferson Hope in relation to Holmes. And don’t give me any lip, Donovan. I need this _now._ ” He left her to it and ran back to his office where he suited up rather quickly. If Sherlock was asking for help on something, especially in relation to his daughter, Lestrade knew that he had gotten himself into more trouble than he had been expecting. Just as he put a new clip into his handgun, Donovan walked into the room reading a case file.

“Hope, Jefferson, fifty-two, father of two, Ellie and Dylan. Divorced. Diagnosed brain aneurism six years ago but no medical help. Cabbie.” She paused, frowned, then read on. “Killed after forcing four people to commit suicide via unidentified capsule and an attempted fifth, one Sherlock Holmes. Shot by handgun of unknown origin at short distance at University of Westminster, student division. Shooter never found, no suspects.” She looked up at him, confusion written on her face but no words coming from her slightly parted lips.

“Send three cars there within fifteen minutes but tell them to wait for my orders,” Lestrade ordered as he slipped his two handguns into their holsters and covered them with his trench coat. “I will be going in alone and will only give orders when it is cleared or if we are in distress. Tell them there is  a defenseless five year old girl inside and we must get her out safely, along with her father if he’s still alive.” He gave no other instruction as he sped past her and out towards the squad cars.

 _Sherlock, you bastard. You better be alive,_ he thought as he roared his car engine out on the busy London street and off towards uncertain situation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow. That was a longer hiatus than I had planned. School, babysitting, etc has all taken it's toll on me.  
> Anyway, I have not died. Yay!  
> Like every other chapter of this fic, this is not Beta'd. But I look back on it now and see how horrible I wrote the first four chapters (I'll probably wake up tomorrow and think the same about this one) so I may rewrite them later on.  
> I do not speak French and use Google Translate (horrible, I know). If anyone speaks French and would like to correct me, dear God please do.  
> I have no idea how much longer this fic will last. A chapter? Maybe two? Who knows.


	6. Chapter 6

                When Lestrade and two other squad cars of officers finally arrived, the entire scene was in shambles. Blood pooled over a majority of the floor but without any sort of knowledge of who was there before, it was impossible to tell who’s blood it was. Sherlock was kneeling beside John, his Belstaff coat thrown aside in the corner and his suit jacket stuffed and pressed against John’s shoulder. John looked worse for wear. In fact, he looked like he was dying. His face was blanched, his body was still, and he hardly looked like he was breathing. But Sherlock was still pressing his jacket against his shoulder and chanting, “Please, John, please.  John, live.” Lestrade looked around the room once as one of the officers behind him called for an ambulance. In the other corner, small, frail, and unconscious lay Lexie. He hurried over to her and pressed his fingers to her pule point. It was faint but she was alive.

                “Sherlock, I need to get them –“ he started by Sherlock wasn’t listening. He was still focused on John, still chanting, still pleading with his husband to stay alive and stay with them and any other ‘stay with’ that he could think of. And then it was so clear to Lestrade. Watching Sherlock, the inspector say more emotion on that angular face in a few minutes than he had the entire time he’d known the man. Worry. Fear. Anger. Distraction. Panic. Lestrade could even see that Sherlock’s mind was in shambles. The beautiful, dependent brain that Sherlock focused his life around was temporarily gone. There was nothing to fall back on as John lay bleeding in front of him. Picking Lexie up carefully, Lestrade moved over to Sherlock and nudged him with his elbow as he heard the ambulance sirens coming closer and closer.

                “Sherlock,” he tried again, softer and less rushed. “We need to get them to the hospital. John needs surgery and Lexie needs a doctor – “

                “Minor concussion, likely damage to lower spinal cord from force of impact, illness for two or three days, and an incessant need to watch cartoons as a result,” Sherlock rattled off, his usually even voice shaking and higher pitched than usual. “I’ve checked her over. She will be fine. Very little likelihood that – that – “ But he couldn’t even finish. It was likely that he’d made his deductions before his mind had gone to shambles and he only recited what he could retain. Everything else was likely to be lost.

                Lestrade said nothing else. He backed away from Sherlock, Lexie still tight in his arms, and handed her over without any complaint or comment when the EMTs finally arrived. He couldn’t even tell them what happened; only Sherlock knew and the man was currently too distraught over his husband to even register that there were two people trying to pry him off. When it did register, it was the worst scene Lestrade had ever witnessed.

                “No!” Sherlock screeched as he tried to reach for John again, his hands stained with his husband’s blood. He wretched his arms as he tried to get out of their reaches but two officers lurched forward to grab onto the distraught detective. “No! John! You can’t  - don’t – give him back!”

                The two EMTs carefully bur hurriedly got John onto the gurney when the third, the one who had taken care of Lexie, came forward and began to treat John’s shoulder as they rushed back towards the ambulance. Sherlock was still screeching and trying to reach out, now with tears trailing down his cheeks. When John was placed into the ambulance and an EMT were rushing to get to the driver’s seat, Sherlock went lax in the officers’ arms and his screeching turned to nothing more than incoherent mumblings. Lestrade stepped forward, signaling for the officers to leave, and held Sherlock up on his own, the detective slipping down to his knees in the older man’s arms.

                Silence covered the scene as the ambulances rushed off towards the hospital and the officers kept away until Lestrade said they could approach. They had been on too many scenes with Sherlock to know that they should never come forward until they were given the all clear. Sherlock never noticed them. Instead, he closed his eyes and seemed to shrink until he was no taller than a child. Then, very quietly, he said, “I shot him. This is my fault.”

                “What?” Lestrade asked, surprised and thinking he was going deaf. That couldn’t possibly be what Sherlock had said.

                “I shot him, Lestrade,” Sherlock said a little louder. “Moriarty gave me a choice: shoot my child or shoot my husband. Lexie – Lexie pleaded with me to shoot her. She said that we could make another child but I couldn’t find another John. I couldn’t do that. I looked at John and saw how he was positioned. The man holding him – if I shot at the right angle, I could get his femoral artery. I did but I had to shoot through John’s shoulder to get to him. He’s dead in the hallway.” He pointed lamely towards the hall just on the right that no one seemed to realize was there. “Moriarty was holding my daughter. He threw her against the wall by her hair. I heard it. I watched as she was knocked unconscious. Then Moriarty flew at me. I felt the gun go off but I don’t know if I shot him. I don’t think I did. I was too distracted from shooting John. I don’t – “ Again, the words wouldn’t come and Sherlock’s lips floundered for a moment without any sound.

                Lestrade knelt down next to Sherlock and said carefully, “Sherlock, we’ll find him. We’ll find him this time. And we’ll make sure he pays this time, alright?”

                But it was evident that Sherlock wasn’t paying attention. His eyes were open now but they were glossed over and staring into nothingness. His body began swaying a little in Lestrade’s grip, as if he was so overwhelmed by everything that had happened that he was going to fall over under the weight of it all. It was probably true.

                With a sigh, Lestrade signaled for one of the officers to bring a shock blanket for Sherlock and then signaled the rest to start on the crime scene. They started as carefully as possible with Sherlock still on the scene but he didn’t seem to care. Slowly, Lestrade pulled the younger detective up by his arms and led him towards his squad car, ignoring his need for a shock-free statement and set on getting Sherlock to the hospital with his family.

 

><><>< 

 

                Hours later found Sherlock sitting outside the operation room where John was, hands still staind with blood and his coat retrieved from the crime scene but forgotten next to him on the uncomfortable plastic chairs. He knew that Lexie was alright as the doctor in charge of her had come down to tell him that. But Sherlock had turned down the offer to see her. She was asleep. She would be asleep for a little while longer, they told him, so he didn’t want to leave John until he knew how his husband was holding up.

                During the time he waited, he ignored three calls from his brother, a text from Lestrade, and a text from Harry, who’d been called by the hospital to tell her that her brother was in surgery. It seemed that she was still on his medical list as an emergency contact. Sherlock didn’t care. He stared blankly at the operation room doors as if staring at them would make the operation go by faster. He’d been told already that John was lucky. Being shot in the shoulder once was bad enough; being shot again and having a high probability of still being able to us his arm was just luck.  But he’d lost a lot of blood. Sherlock had offered himself up for a blood transfusion but they were different blood types and so the nurses had to go in search for John’s blood type before they could continue the operation.

                Finally, after what had felt like all night, a doctor exited the operation room and peeled off his gloves, looking around the waiting room. His eyes caught on Sherlock’s gaunt face, causing him to sigh just a little before he pushed forward and walked over to Sherlock.

                “Mr Watson?” he asked.

                “Watson-Holmes,” Sherlock corrected, his voice weak and small. He didn’t look up at the doctor at all but continued to stare at nothing.

                “Right, Mr Watson-Holmes,” the doctor said slowly. Then he cleared his voice and continued. “Dr Watson -  Watson-Holmes has lost a lot of blood. But he’s been undergoing a blood transfusion as we’ve been operating. The bullet went through his clavicle and broke the bone. It missed nerves and nerve endings, only disrupting the bone and muscle, but he won’t be able to use his arm for a few weeks. He’ll need to be in physical therapy afterwards to gain full use of his arm again. As I understand it, he’s a surgeon –“

                “Was,” Sherlock corrected again. “Over twelve years ago. But his shoulder was shot and he lost the ability to perform surgeries. If you’re going to tell me that he won’t be a surgeon again, we know. He’s a clinic doctor.”

                The doctor nodded once then looked around the room briefly before setting his eyes back on Sherlock. “Dr Watson-Holmes will be sedated for another few hours. You’re welcome to go see him once they’ve cleaned him up from surgery but I would advise you to go see your daughter first, sir. She may wake up first and will want you there with her. She should be discharged by the time your husband is closer to waking up. You can both see him together.” The doctor waited for a response but did not get one. He didn’t even get a scathing deduction like Sherlock was prone to do. He was far too distracted to observe.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry it took so long! I went over seas for the summer then had summer school so I've been suuuuuuuuper busy. But I'm back! I've got one chapter left, I think before this story is over.


	7. Chapter 7

                The quiet filled Sherlock’s ears and thoughts, only interrupted by the beeps every few seconds as Lexie’s heart rate was monitored. He still could not fathom what all had happened or how broken he felt when he saw his daughter with more machines attached to her body than when she was born. Bandages wrapped around her head, covering her dark curly hair. A neck brace was locked underneath her chin more as a precaution than a necessity. Covering her small thin body was a back brace that was far too large for her, a temporary remedy until they could find one in her size. In the moments that Sherlock sat staring at his daughter’s unconscious form, he could not think anything other than, _I did this. I did this to my family._ He had a fleeting notion to leave them behind, to keep them safe, to ensure that they were never threatened again but he couldn’t. He was a weak man when it came down to it. He could give up his life, his livelihood, his own person to keep his family safe but he couldn’t give up his family.

                His thoughts were broken into again as a small whimper sounded from the bed. Swiftly, Sherlock stood from his place in the visitor’s chair and moved to sit on the edge of Lexie’s bed, holding her hand lightly.

                “C'est bon, l'amour. Vous allez être bien.” <It's alright, love. You're going to be fine.> he murmured as he stroked the back of her hand with his thumb. He never used endearments. Lexie was always Alexandria. John was always John. The emotional restraint he held onto so dearly every day was beginning to crumble and from the fleeting look of surprise in Lexie’s eyes as she blearily looked up at Sherlock showed how rare it really was.

                The little girl gave a soft cough as she opened her mouth then tried again only to give a dry croak. Sherlock moved over to the side table to pick up the water and straw left behind by a nurse earlier in the day and clumsily raised it up to Lexie to drink. Once nearly all of the water was gone, she finally coughed again, the sound much healthier and less sickening.

                “Où...Papa...où...moi,” <Where…Papa…where…me> she stumbled then gave up with a whimper and a tear, moving on to say, “Where’s Papa? What happened, Daddy?”

                _Post-traumatic amnesia,_ Sherlock noted to himself. _Possible cognitive issues including resulting in loss of bilingual ability, rapidly losing ability to speak and understand French, swelling of the left hemisphere controlling language ability and understanding. Must reteach French if post-traumatic amnesia is long-lasting. Must not push for multiple languages as planned._

                A tug on his hand broke him out of his thoughts, making him quickly note how he would not be able to go through a single, complete thought process throughout the day. Maybe it was best. If he lost himself in his thoughts, then he would lose the attention on his family.

                “Papa’s in surgery,” he explained, trying as best as he could to keep himself emotionally level. He could not lose himself in front of his daughter. “He’s – his shoulder’s injured again. You remember the scar he has?” Lexie nodded, albeit weakly. “It’s been reopened.” He did not want to admit at the moment that he was the one that reopened it. “Papa may not be able to hold you for a while. He may be limited in what he can do, if he gets use of his arm back at all. It may be – it may be possible that Papa will only have function in his right arm from now on.”

                He knew that it would nearly destroy John if he lost function in his left arm. He was left-handed. He held their daughter on his left forearm nearly every morning. He held his cane, when it was needed, with his left hand. Everything he did with the exception of shooting his gun was all left-handed. Sherlock knew that John would have to relearn everything if he lost his arm and he knew it would be his fault. No amount of apologies – however backhanded or strange or Sherlock-y they were – would ever make up for it. The possibility for John’s limited function was steadily rising in percentage as Sherlock dwelled on that fact. A bullet going through him once and leaving him functioning was luck; a second bullet going through him and leaving him functioning would be a miracle. Even though Sherlock did not believe in miracles, he needed one now.

><><><><>< 

                John’s recovery room held evidence of Mycroft’s interference from the moment the detective and his daughter – now without a neck brace and with a proper back brace, though in a wheelchair for the moment – stepped into the room. It was private but spacious, given enough room for another bed should Sherlock and Lexie want to stay. For a brief moment, Sherlock cursed his older brother and his subtle message that the detective could not take care of his own. But then he ignored it for another day. His brother would always be a nosy git; John would not always need him. Wheeling Lexie over to John’s side, Sherlock could not bring himself to let his eyes wander to his husband’s shoulder. The guilt that still, and would always, wrack his mind was too overwhelming for him to function if he let it go free. His daughter and husband needed him so he kept himself as in control as possible.

                Lexie tried to pull herself out of her wheelchair and onto John’s bed but she was far too weak to do much more than disturb her wheelchair. Sherlock moved forward to lock the wheels, pick up his daughter, and carefully set her next to John’s thigh as he himself took his husband’s hand. It felt warm but lifeless, heavy, in his palm and he had never felt a worse sensation in his life.

                “The doctor said that I can’t walk for a while, Papa,” Lexie said quietly, startling Sherlock in the silence of the room. She looked up at her father then back down at John. “He told Daddy that my back is too hurt. I can’t go to school or go play with my friends. And you’ll have to carry me home because Daddy told him that we have stairs and the doctor said I can’t climb stairs. So maybe I can sleep on the sofa instead of going to my room so you don’t have to carry me so much. And Mrs Hudson can come upstairs to give me biscuits so I don’t have to go downstairs to get them. And – “

                “We’ll figure it out when we get home, Alexandria,” Sherlock said quietly as he brought his free hand up to lie on her bandaged head. Her ponytail stuck out from the bandages, a messy pile of curls that Sherlock knew would be horrible to untangle later. He let that domestic thought take over for a little while, a change from the ‘what ifs’ the consequences of his actions would bring to their family. “We may have to go stay at Uncle Mycroft’s until the two of you are better.”

                A jolt on the heart rate machine tore Sherlock’s attention away from Lexie towards John but it seemed, other than an irregular heartbeat, nothing had changed. Sherlock felt his shoulders physically deflate and weigh him down with the sorrow that John was still not awake. So he turned back to Lexie and began to stroke the mess of curls as if to flatten them.

                “I’m n-not g…going anywhere – anywhere near that…ponce.” Sherlock whipped his head around to see John faintly smiling, his eyes cracked open, and pain evident on his face. The wrinkles around his eyes that usually held joy and happiness, even excitement, were replaced by attempts to keep himself together while in evident pain. But Sherlock had never seen a more welcome sight.

                “Papa!” Lexie exclaimed and made a move to hurry up her father’s body only to gasp and move back, sitting straight again. Sherlock dropped his hand down to her neck and gave her a comforting squeeze before picking her up to hold close to John, careful of her back.

                John opened his eyes more until the dark blues were clear and looking up at the both of them but then his eyebrows furrowed to a degree that almost made him close his eyes again.

                “What hap-happened to…Lexie?” he asked, his voice breaking with pain and gasps.

                Before he answered, Sherlock turned the key of the medicine controls and increased John’s morphine levels, ignoring that hospital protocol meant only nurses or doctors could do that. He didn’t care. His husband was in pain and needed the medicine before anyone would come check on them.

                “Mild injuries,” Sherlock murmured. “Slight concussion but possible post-traumatic amnesia resulting in damaged cognitive abilities. A lower back injury that they believe is a bruised ligament and damaged spinal disc. Whiplash to her neck from – from the force…” He couldn’t finish. He instead hid his lips and nose in Lexie’s bandages and closed his eyes for a brief moment to keep himself from looking at John. He knew what he would find there.

                He felt fingers intertwine with his and he opened his eyes to see John giving him a weak, small smile that hid nothing of the man’s pain, both for himself and for Lexie. Sherlock gave a brief squeeze but did not let go of John’s hand. He couldn’t.

                “What about me?” John whispered.

                There was a moment of silence between them as Sherlock turned away from John as if to grab his medical chart but instead stood with his back to his husband, still hand-in-hand, and their daughter looking over Sherlock’s shoulder at John.

                “The bullet chipped your clavicle right at the meeting of your acromion,” Sherlock explained in a broken murmur. “It lodged just before your shoulder blade, rupturing a vein and causing some internal bleeding. They say that it missed all your nerves and nerve endings but the damage to your muscle could render your arm useless. You may have to become right-handed and become partially disabled.” His voice died off as he kept his eyes anywhere but on John.

                Another moment of silence fell over them and this time, Sherlock could almost hear the inner-workings of John’s mind as he processed the new information. After a moment, there was a sniff and a sigh then, surprisingly, a small chuckle. Sherlock turned around to face John with a quizzical expression as his husband smiled up at him.

                “Then I guess I’m going to physical therapy this time,” was all John said. He raised his eyebrows challengingly, though they disappeared into his fringe, and glanced between his daughter and his husband. His voice was much stronger now as the exhaustion from his recovery was fading and the morphine was dulling the pain. Sherlock had not given him enough to put him to sleep yet.

                “What?” Sherlock asked, quite confused.

                “Last time I was shot, I refused physical therapy,” John said in a tone that was usually save for talking about what they were having for dinner that night. “I was shot. I worked on my shoulder from my flat. I went to psychological therapy only because I had to. This time, I’ll go to physical therapy and not psychological therapy.”

                “Why?”

                John cocked his head as best as he could positioned on the pillow and returned Sherlock’s quizzical expression. “Because I’ve got a daughter, you git,” he replied. “I’ve got a daughter that needs to be held and played with. I’ve got a husband that can’t do anything right and needs his arse saved habitually. I’ve got things to do this time and I rather need my arm to do it. So I’m not giving up on myself this time.”

                Surprisingly, Sherlock smiled at John then gave a small chuckle. John joined in then they paused as Lexie giggled only to join in with her, filling the room with chuckles and laughter of relief, pain, worry, and hope.

<><><><><><> 

                “I told you I wasn’t going anywhere near that ponce and now you see why!” John exclaimed as they reached the top of the stairs leading into 221B. He shouldered his way into the flat with his right side, his left still done up in a sling and extensive bandages.

                “I very well couldn’t bring you two here, now could I?” Sherlock called back as he, a few steps behind, carefully carried Lexie and her wheelchair in his arms.

                After another night in the hospital, John’s need to move had gotten the better of him and caused the man to slip out of his hospital bed to move along the wards towards his daughter’s room. It happened four times before the staff, with Mycroft’s ‘helpful’ persuasion, allowed for Sherlock to check both of his family members out of the hospital under his brother’s supervision. The catch was that they had to recover at Mycroft’s spacious countryside home, a stark difference to his in-city flat, so that John and Lexie wouldn’t put so much strain on Sherlock in their cramped flat. It only lasted two days. John was rather irritable when his medications wore off and as Mycroft was simply irritating, the ensuing rows had been enough for the household next door to worry about Mycroft and his safety. Lexie had enjoyed her time at the countryside house as she was able to learn how to use her wheelchair in the space of Mycroft’s vacant corridor’s and even managed to sneak into his second floor library using the cleaning staff lift, something that no one had thought she’d find. It had resulted in an irritated and worried John, a rather proud but anxious Sherlock, and an emotionally vacant Mycroft searching for her for two hours until the window washer boy brought her back as she explained to him the promise of the book she’d found. Mycroft let her keep it as long as she promised to come back to exchange it for another one.

                During that time, Sherlock had explained to John his reasons behind shooting his own husband and, in his own way, how apologetic and remorseful he was that it had come to that. He had been on the brink of promising that it would never happen again when John had pointed out that their life together would always have its injuries and bad guys and problems but he’d married Sherlock with that knowledge in mind. It didn’t mean he was any happier about being shot but then Sherlock showed him some rather interesting ‘nursing techniques’ and John couldn’t quite admit that being shot was worse the second time around than the first.

Still, it hadn’t helped John’s mood at all about being at Mycroft’s so Sherlock resigned to going back to Baker Street and figuring out how they were going to manage everything. He set Lexie’s wheelchair down first and managed to open it up with a struggle then set his daughter down on it with the suggestion that she learn how to use the chair in their flat. She gave a small pout at the limited room she had but still wheeled off to manoeuver around the coffee table then their chairs.

“It’s too small here for the two of you,” Sherlock said, returning to the conversation at hand as he turned around to see John struggling to make tea with one hand. He hurried over to his husband only to be pushed away.

“I can make some bloody tea, Sherlock,” John grumbled. Within a couple of minutes, it was evident he couldn’t. Boiled water had spilled along the countertop, tea leaves had been dropped onto the floor, and a mug had nearly fallen to its destruction before John finally gave up and begrudgingly flopped himself in his chair, leaving Sherlock to make the tea.

When the detective brought their mugs in and set one down by John, the blond held up his good arm to stop his husband from moving any farther. Neither one spoke for a moment, however, as Sherlock recognized that John was trying to carefully select his words before speaking.

“There will always be someone out there,” he said quietly and slowly, keeping his eyes on his knees. “There will always be a bad guy, an arch enemy, someone who wants to get at you and they will always find a way to get to you through us. But I can’t let that happen the way it happened this time. When Moriarty captured me, he – well, we’ve always known the man could poke buttons – he said some things that got me thinking.” He paused for a moment then licked his lower lip before speaking again. “He said that you kept us a secret because you were ashamed of us. Now I know that’s not true,” he said, interrupting Sherlock’s near-interruption, “but it still got me thinking. How many others will think along the same lines? How many others will try to use us to _shame_ you into doing what they want? You’ve said it yourself that love is a vicious motivator. So…so isn’t letting them know that you’ve got a family that you would die for, kill for, going to be a bit of a stopper? They’ll still come after us but at least then they’ll know that you’ll stop at nothing to get us back. Isn’t that better than them thinking that you’ll just sit on your arse and not care? They may even come after us less. And if Lexie come out of that chair – even if she doesn’t actually – we can teach her how to protect herself so that she doesn’t go down without a fight and may leave a few injured bad guys in her path.” He gave a small smirk but it fell almost instantly as he finally looked up at his husband. “So please, Sherlock, no more secrets.”

Sherlock was silent for a long moment as he thought over John’s words. He knew that what his husband said was true but he couldn’t stop thinking of the possibilities the moment they put his name on Lexie’s birth certificate, when his marriage to John was actually common knowledge, when people knew that this man who was thought to be a statue with a heart of ice had a family he cared for. But he also knew the strain that their secrets were having on John. He quite clearly remembered his husband’s worries before they realized Lexie was missing. So after a moment, Sherlock knelt next to John to make them eye-level and took his husband’s hand.

“That won’t stop my worry for you two, you must know,” he murmured. “I will constantly see possibilities to where you are injured because of me, how the next suspect or arch enemy will attempt to use you against me. But I am the farthest thing from ashamed of you or our daughter. I am much stronger with you and I suppose, in a way, it is time to let everyone else know.” He gave a small smile that did not fade like John’s did. “So no more secrets.”

And they held their secrets no more. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow! Okay, this is complete now. I am so so sorry that it took so friggin' long. The usual excuses, though. School. Work. Distraction. The new season of Sherlock. That sort of thing. But this story is now fin and I can move on to other works. That's right, my friends. I'm writing another fic. From writing this story, I have figured that I need to write the entire story before publishing it and that I need to have a BETA. So it may be a long time coming before my next story is up but if you want, keep a weather eye on my works and you'll hopefully see it by the end of the school semester. I'd like to have it written and BETA'd by then so I don't have to worry about it other than publishing it when I go to grad school in the fall (I'm officially an adult after graduation; someone hold me!). I've already gotten it outlined and the first two chapters are written, though unBETA'd. It's going to be a doozy (30chaptersdeargod).
> 
> Alright, other than all that mumbo-jumbo, let me know if there are any errors/inconsistencies, especially with the French. I am not a native speaker of anything but English and Google Translate is not always your friend. 
> 
> P.S. If Sherlock seems OOC, it's because I tried to match him with this character development in S3. If you haven't seen S3 yet...whoops!


End file.
